


and i recall it all

by sunabolitionist



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, F/F, Final moments, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:35:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25554427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunabolitionist/pseuds/sunabolitionist
Summary: Flayn spends time with Lysithea in her final moments.
Relationships: Flayn & Lysithea von Ordelia, Flayn/Lysithea von Ordelia
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	and i recall it all

By wonder and the touch of hands, she could recall it all. Nostalgia for a better time was easy to come by when the world still smoked from flame and wore the kisses of blood. The war had ended in the way wars end; with men’s bones strewn across battlefields, their sprawling bodies reforming into monuments to their own motivations. Lysithea could feel the finality of the moment; how it came quickly like a mount shot headlong with an arrow long after its master had died. The bed was soft, allconsuming. She never married and did not think to, as she spent much of her time recalling Flayn, how she was always bright and smiling, happy to share a sweet cake and chatter about the day’s activities. She always seemed so happy and truly, Lysithea did not know why. It was an unequivocal feeling; she wanted to be with Flayn and Flayn alone. Yet, she couldn’t discern how Flayn maintained her steadiness. Hell, she couldn’t discern how she maintained her  _ own _ steadiness in those days, knowing death was a dog chomping at the bit. Perhaps it was the cold overhang of death that did this to her; perhaps it was simply fear. She didn’t know. Her mind teetered on a blade’s e

Lysithea, in these later days, once the Church claimed victory and things settled down, had just barely begun to return home. Fervent thoughts of her future berated her, quickly coming, going, darting and dashing like arrows and yes, her body was already beginning to decay; the feeling was unavoidable as her weakness became so terrible that often she could not lift herself from bed, nor lift her arms or legs to grab for someone, occasionally, she could barely speak. She could feel the heat of her Crests burn into her. 

She knew her whole life she pushed for things, she crushed the fears she felt, she made sure she didn’t die quietly, that she did something that  _ mattered.  _ That she attempted to give her parents the chance they deserved, that the others she saw in those dungeons deserved. 

She remembered Flayn often. Her name spurred a typhoon in her chest. But she was gone. There’s a strangeness when someone is simply lost, their body unrecovered, their families never informed; no closure. The wound festers. The same feeling she felt when she thought of her inevitable death, she felt when she thought of never seeing Flayn again. At first, she thought Flayn was naive. A fool. But there was a clear wisdom present, twisting behind her eyes that Lysithea couldn’t disregard. 

Flayn frequently visited Lysithea. At first, Lysithea thought it was out of pity, presuming that Flayn had heard of what had happened to her when she was a child and took it upon herself to comfort her from something she didn’t need to be comforted from. Nearly enraged when Flayn arrived the first time, she stared her down quietly, examining her prim, proper movements. But Flayn smiled so much. She talked, as she did, with soft, measured confidence, and yes, it took a bit, with much uncomfortable discussion and shaky hands, but Flayn’s presence eventually warmed Lysithea. She realized it finally, not long before things became dire. It was soon after Flayn joined the Academy that she began to visit her more often, with more kindness and less foreignness. 

She sat at the edge of Lysithea’s bed with her legs swung under her so that the bell of her blouse would gently rest on her thighs and her tights would not stretch. Lysithea sat next to her, brooding on something she was trying to forget that Flayn had stirred up in her after their just-concluded conversation on crests. The conversation distressed them both and Flayn thought much of it, stepping carefully around the terrifying aspects of them. Yet it was enough to set Lysithea off, though, Lysithea herself could not understand where these feelings came from, or why they were so intense. Or, why they went form stirring discomfort, to rage, to utter, desperate sadness. She didn’t want to cry, feeling a sharp pain in her chest, the burning from her crests in her body. She tried to breathe. Flayn, noticing, questioned her. 

“Are you alright?” Her voice rose with curiosity, yet rife with clear and deep concern. 

“I…” she paused for a long moment, then sunk her head in her hands. “I don’t know… I don’t know… I don’t know…” 

Flayn approached her with her hand out, attempting to be loving. “It is okay to not know.” 

Lysithea nearly snapped; “I am not  _ stupid,  _ Flayn. I know it is okay to not know something. I just…” she got so frustrated she smacked the side of her head with the blunt of her palm, a mistake, as when she did it, her vision completely blacked out, and she became so dizzy she couldn’t keep her head up. Flayn approached her, gently laying a hand on Lysithea, using a bit of healing magic to keep her going. 

Lysithea grew hot with anger when she regained her full faculties. “I didn’t… ask for that.” She murmured weakly, now sitting up in the bed. 

Lysithea, uncomfortable, shook her head. She kept insisting;  _ don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. Didn’t they teach you that the pain is not something to cry at? They’ll just hurt you more. They’ll just try again…  _

But she couldn’t resist the curious feeling of safety Flayn stirred in her. Her eyes began to water and her chest turned into a sinkhole within the first inkling of Flayn’s hand falling gently on her shoulder. She sobbed. Every terrible memory returned in full force and now in her bed, years later, she would consider why it was that they came back so forcefully, why she felt so safe. Flayn was no stranger, but surely, she was not yet a confidant. Yet Flayn knew enough to understand why Lysithea hurt like this, but not enough to understand how she hurt. It tore her up, not being able to do more. Lysithea sank into Flayn’s lap, shaking as she cried. 

Flayn saw so much suffering in the world she returned to. It both enraged her and brought her so much sadness; Lysithea was a casualty of this and Flayn understood it. To Lysithea, she was not Cethlann, she was… simply a girl. She was simply Seteth’s younger sister. She was simply Flayn. It was clear to Flayn that she would not be able to stay with Lysithea. Lysithea murmured pained truths. Flayn stroked Lysithea’s white hair. 

“I am going to die. I know I am going t-to die.” She sucked in long, labored breaths as she hiccuped with tears. “I don’t h-have long.” She didn’t seem to be informing, but attempting to cope. Lysithea knew that when she spoke to others about this, she would be clear, seem powerful and confident and not fear what she knew the future held for her. But around Flayn, it disappeared. She didn’t feel able to ignore the feeling. Was it safety she felt? She couldn’t tell. But Flayn kept stroking her hair until Lysithea let down her last tear and sniffled a final time. 

When it was time for Flayn to go, Lysithea felt a tug in her chest.  _ I don’t want you.. to leave me.  _ She thought. She could recall everyone disappearing while she laid alone in the halls where she was experimented on; being alone simply meant being free to be manipulated. She feared it desperately. Flayn gently took Lysithea’s hand for a moment, looking at her with a tenderness forged from their moment on the edge of the bed, her body shaking in hers and the sheer chance for comfort that Flayn provided. Lysithea wanted to thank her. Flayn wanted to take her with her to have tea and sweet cakes. Flayn tells her, her voice gentle, her smile infectious. 

Lysithea cracks a gentle smile. “I wish I could but…” she sighs. “I am so tired…” She inhales a long breath, then takes Flayn’s hand and kisses it gently. She didn’t know how else to thank her but to show, even for a moment, the smallest display of affection. It was foreign, but it made her hopeful. Flayn blushed. 

“O-oh.” Flayn murmured, realizing, her face turning a bit pink. She pulled Lysithea in close, then hugged her. She inhaled and noted how Lysithea always seemed to smell like cinnamon. She smiled, let go, then softly kissed Lysithea on the head. “It will serve you well to get rest.” She beams. 

Lysithea’s face fills with blood, turning her a bright pink. “Okay…” she says, even weaker now. “I… care about you.” She murmurs. 

“Come now! Go to sleep, Lysithea. You will fall unconscious where you stand if you keep attempting to stay awake.” 

“Yes, Flayn…” She moved to her bed and laid down and by the time Flayn had left the room, Lysithea’s vision left her and she drifted into sleep. 

Lysithea always felt like Flayn was hiding something from her in those later days. She feared she would not survive to know, be it from an enemy arrow or blade, or from the inevitability of her early death. It made her nauseous. Flayn sat down before her one day in the middle of the war, the both of them in the remnants of the monastery, on a bench outside of their quarters. 

“I know…” Flayn started, something obviously troubling her, “that I have told you many a time that I love you and that I care about you.” She was not smiling, even her eyes were cast down. 

Lysithea nodded. Their relationship was odd; Flayn would appear to her in the night and sleep beside her. Flayn would share meals with her during the day, talking to her as if the night prior had never occurred. On one occasion, Flayn took Lysithea to the statues and sat with her under the statue of Saint Cethlann, touching her face then silently kissing her. She laid her head in Lysithea’s lap, looking up at her with a content smile. Lysithea, without thinking, idly stroked Flayn’s green hair. This confused Lysithea, but surely, she loved it. She did not understand her feelings towards Flayn, but she knew what she wanted; days, long days in a short, selective number of years that would never turn around or expand. Flayn told her many times, unabashedly, that she loved her. It was no secret amongst their comrades, and no one really minded it except for Seteth, who watched this closely, disliking Flayn’s decisions, for fear she’d attempt to discard her status as Cethlann. 

“I want to make clear…” she pauses, mulling over her words. “That I may be able to help you. And if I cannot, then you will die, and I will be forced to live the rest of my life without you. I do not want that. I want you to be alive so I may…” she laughs, smiling, looking directly into Lysithea’s concerned eyes. “Stroke your hair and… kiss you on the head and spend time with you. I enjoy your company. I enjoy you.” 

Lysithea felt her skin writhe. “Do you think the insects fall in love?” 

Flayn was startled by this. “Why, of course.” She labored to find a word. “Why do you ask?” 

“Because you know I am going to die, like an ant or a fly, long before you have a chance to consider where I came from or why. Because I will be trapped in a window, clasped between the sun, glass, and a curtain, dying in heat. I am… quite literally fated to die. I am resigned to it. I do what I can where I can. Perhaps I can love you for as long as, I can, but you will need to accept that this is not something you can fix. It is an inevitability: you will hopefully live a long life without me, okay? It’s fine.” 

Flayn grows frustrated, then evens out. “You would be surprised, Von Ordelia.” 

Lysithea’s eyes narrowed at Flayn’s use of her family name. She disliked that, especially now. 

“I am not as simple as everyone makes me out to be.” Flayn said, then sunk back in her seat. 

“Perhaps.” Lysithea felt uncomfortable remembering the ways Flayn had changed since the war began; the way she evened out, smiled less, stared off into the sky as if beholding heaven. “But if you can…” she sighed, “I would be happy to spend the rest of my life with you.” 

Flayn flinched with pain. 

“What, Flayn?” Lysithea’s concern oozed from her. 

“It’s nothing.” 

“Clearly it is something.” 

Flayn feels something twitch in her chest. “I will be with you for as long as I can.” 

“You will outlive me, surely.” Lysithea sighed, “but I hope… it will be for a long time so you may be happy and in a world better than this one. So we win, we make a good world. We do better.” She grumbled. “But it’s tiring, truly.” Lysithea places her hand on Flayn’s knee, then places her head gently on her shoulder. “I am glad-- that even in the short time I have, I got to know you.” 

Flayn murmured; “and in the long time I have had, that I have known you.” 

Lysithea raised her head, “hm?” 

“Do not worry, love.” 

Lysithea nearly grumbled, an intent feeling of dissatisfaction in her chest, and yet, she did not, instead opting to stare up at the statue of Cethlann, placing her head back on Flayn’s shoulder. 

Sweet, how the tides of time do not shift but twist. She laid in her bed quietly, thinking of all the times spent in silence. Thinking of all the cold periods where nothing could happen or change except that which seemed to be turning towards pain; and these thoughts did hurt, explicitly so. Each of them made her writhe in her bed, her breath coming weak out of her nose. Morbidly, she wondered if anyone would come to see her raise a hand to them, the family was elsewhere and she still had work to do to gain their respect. She was cut free from the body too quickly. Lysithea cried softly, each tear hot on her face. Something shifts at the door. She can’t quite move her head to look, nor raise her body at all. It hurts... like all the arrows she took, like all the slashes on her arms and legs she took in close combat, but somehow, there is the knowledge of it that adds a venom to it. But the door does open. 

By wonder, she entered. Her hair was longer, no longer in her braids, simply hanging loose from her head like she’d traveled a long way to get here. Flayn had traveled some way. She traveled silently on the back of her pegasus. Flayn rarely felt such an acute terror when traveling-- she moved with haste out of fear she would not arrive fast enough, or that she would be attacked by bandits. She rarely stopped, going hungry many days and many nights and as a result her face shrunk, her lips cracked, her body looked almost decrepit and fearful of even the wind. She was regretful but the choice was not hers; love guided her, fear guided her, want guided her, straight away. She inhales softly as she sees Lysithea, her eyes tired, her breath taken weakly and with a sharp stabbing pain in her chest when it filled her lungs. 

She did not want to think of where she had been, solely because she knew that it was not something she needed to feel regret. It was righteous to trounce the weaklings left over. They were weak and dissidents and thus they deserved to face her wrath; it was what the goddess taught her-- love comes in fold with wrath. But Lysithea is oft her point of defiance; oft the sheer want in her heart that warms her to knowing that she could spend… no? The time for that is gone, is it not? There is nothing left to be had. No more sweet cakes left to eat, no more moments sitting beneath her own visage, no more nights sleeping together with their bodies intertwined awkwardly and lovingly. 

  
Lysithea’s face cut into Flayn’s heart. She nearly keels over at the sight of Lysithea’s gaunt face, and the  _ stench,  _ the terrible, terrible stench. It all smells as if Lysithea’s body has already begun to rot, that her flesh has already decayed beyond a living person. 

She could barely raise a hand. But she tried. Her hand almost made it out from under her thick wool blankets, but failed, she could hardly lift it without great pain from her crests, and her breath shortened, sharpened at the end of every motion. She groaned softly, whining as if she had finally been broken. 

Flayn’s eyes began to fill with tears. 

“Oh dear,” her voice is hoarse, weaker, a bit deeper than it had been when Lysithea saw her last. Notably, she does not sound as kind, instead sounding rather jagged and tired. Flayn tries to console herself… inhale… exhale… think of the goddess… But she cannot; a terrible pain rises in her stomach. 

“Flayn,” Lysithea smiled as much as she could. “I never thought there was a chance…” She sucked in a quick breath. “I was never naive enough to think you’d truly come back.” 

Flayn sat at Lysithea’s side, pensively looking down upon her with her eyes heavy, sunken, unable to rise beyond the blankets to look at her face. 

“I have come.” She wavered. “I am so glad I was not too late.” 

“Had I been dead, even then you would not have been too late-- my soul would have rejoiced at seeing you, even if it hurt immensely.” 

Flayn choked back a tear. “What would you like to do?” Flayn swept Lysithea’s hair from her sweating face. 

“Be at rest, for once.” 

“Yes, you never got that when you were in the academy. You never got that during the war…” 

Flayn felt the anxiety of knowing that Lysithea’s death would be the last moment she would ever have to tell her, to tell her the truth, to be honest for once in her long time in this time-- it grew in her chest, heated, burnt. But she looked down at her. How much would that hurt her? To let her know that all this time, she would spend mourning her, her eyes burnt with the image of Lysithea, her head placed in her lap, her body next to hers-- all of the impossibilities in the world felt possible now. But this-- this was not impossible. She chose to refuse herself this. She chose it. She moved closer to Lysithea. She refused to tell her. 

_ Just let me be Flayn. Just let me be the woman she knows.  _

Flayn brought her head close to Lysithea, laying it gently on her shoulder. 

“When it is time, I will speak your name.” Lysithea murmured. 

“Why?” 

“I want it to be the last word on my lips.” She smiled, softly laying her head on Flayn’s. 

And when it came, it was gentle-- without obstruction. It rose and fell from the air like a mid-autumn leaf, caressing the ground and not striking it. Flayn did not cry. She buried her face in Lysithea’s unbreathing chest. She laughed, recalling it all. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> hi. this is probably going to be one of my very Few fire emblem fics. please enjoy. here's my twitter @sunabolitionist


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